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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27237220">Pumpkins and Cinnamon</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whuffie/pseuds/Whuffie'>Whuffie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Cozy Autumn Prompts [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:29:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,550</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27237220</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whuffie/pseuds/Whuffie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Trespasser, Alistair pines for his missing queen and wife. Things are never what they appear or what he expects.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alistair &amp; Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Cozy Autumn Prompts [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1975045</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Pumpkins and Cinnamon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Alistair twirled the stem of a rose between his forefinger and thumb, heedless of the thorns. He watched candlelight cast shadows on the withering petals. They turned the color of blood with age and lighting. It had been over six years since Serafina left to find a cure for the Calling, and nearly as long since the Inquisition was formed. He’d met the Herald of Andraste in Redcliffe, during that whole mage fiasco. Teagan was ready to spit live coals, but the Inquisition took the rebel mages to help seal the breach. It solved the problem and the Inquisitor helped him with a few situations after that.</p><p>The organization itself succeeded, given enough time, and the breach was barely a green scar which glowed on the night horizon. Other problems surfaced later, of course. As king, it kept him busy, but never enough to keep his mind occupied for long. He carried on because he had a duty to his country and it didn’t matter his wife and queen was absent. Her guidance and suggestions would have been welcome. They always were, but she’d helped him learn the basics he needed to rule before she left.</p><p>As far as his subjects and the Ferelden nobility knew, they were finished with the Grey Wardens. In theory, it was true. No longer part of the Order, neither he nor Serafina were part of their wars. Warden oaths didn’t apply to them any longer. There were times he felt he was betraying Duncan’s memory by turning his back on them, but the Archdemon was dead. He and Serafina managed that much before a birthright he spent most of his life running from caught up to him.</p><p>Holding the rose over a candle flame, he watched as the dry pedals caught and smoldered. Fine curls of smoke lazily twisted toward the ceiling and stung his eyes. Eight years ago, he was at Ostagar to meet the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Eight years ago he watched her survive a Joining, and eight years ago, he fell in love. </p><p>Her absence was a hollow place in his chest and gut which never completely left. If anyone could find a cure, he knew she could, but that didn’t stop him from reaching for her in the middle of the night, only to find an empty space in bed. For a while, their sheets and chambers smelled like her. The soap she used in her hair, and all the small, intimate things which made her unique lingered. It almost allowed him to imagine she never left.</p><p>Time eventually erased even that, and he dropped the charred remnants of the rose stem into flaked ashes. The acrid smoke made his eyes water, or so he told himself as he rested the rim of a goblet against his forehead. Wine sloshed softly inside, and he composed himself to take a deep sip.</p><p>They survived so much. He wanted to believe she would come home, but there was no word. No letters arrived, no birds carried messages and no runners brought news. As formidable as his wife was, he couldn’t stop himself from worrying any more than he could keep hope from slipping through his fingers year by year.</p><p>Without a cure, how long would it be before he heard the Calling? The country might believe he was done with his old Order, but it was impossible to completely leave. The Joining tainted both of them for the rest of their lives. The throne couldn’t change that, but Serafina insisted there was a way to beat it. As resolute as always, she went to find it for both of them, promising she’d return as soon as possible.</p><p>At first, he explained her absence away when the nobility made curious inquiries. The rumors began to prick his temper after a few months as whispers suggested she ran off with someone else. They turned into open wounds after a year, and he yelled at a few people he knew he shouldn’t have. It caused a few incidents, but he could only stand so much venomous gossip.</p><p>By now, they’d all given up on seeing their queen again, assuming her dead. There were more than a few overtures for him to remarry. The last time he threatened to dump an entire punch bowl of some fancy Antivian concoction over the head of a Bann’s daughter who wouldn’t leave him alone. After that, the proposals were in shorter supply and he’d gotten more tactful at turning them away. He also stopped drinking as heavily as he was on that particular day, as tempting as it was to drown his sorrows in ale or wine.</p><p>He caught his reflection in the back of a spoon. His greying temples didn’t show much in his long blond hair, but the stress of surviving a Blight left its mark. It hadn’t started creeping into his beard, yet, but it only served as a miserable reminder. He and Serafina lost so much. Her family was murdered except for a brother. The only people he called family were killed at Ostagar. All he really wanted was to grow old with her beside him, however long they had, but even time was stolen from them.</p><p>He sighed over the top of his goblet. Finishing the wine, he dropped it on the table, reconciling himself in grief and loss. When he squinted a certain way in the dim light, he could almost imagine her sitting on the edge of their bed, waiting for him. That was all he had left, and when he looked away, even the illusion was gone.</p><p>His next sigh broke in his chest with the sound of irreconcilable grief and he began to undress for bed. Not getting as far as unbuttoning his tunic, a screech erupted from inside the palace. He almost hoped for Venatori lurking in the pantry with the rest of the rats, but he knew it wouldn’t be anything so bracing. Rulership had become boring and predictable.</p><p>Putting himself hastily back in order, he pushed open the door to the almost overwhelming aroma of pumpkin and cinnamon. The cooks were using it in everything from tarts to stews with the time of year. He expected that as he strode past the kitchen toward the commotion. He didn’t expect the sight in front of him which made him stop dead at the entrance to the palace courtyard. That was where all the shouting originated, and for the first time in his life, his jaw fell slack.</p><p>There were pumpkins. Large, round, orange, irregular spheres which shone proud against the brown dirt and a few fallen leaves. They were mundane, but the creature casually rolling one around with its foreleg then bending down a great head with a curious eye? It was … it was a…</p><p>Alistair could have been knocked over with a feather. He was sure people were calling to him and looking at him for leadership, but he couldn’t get himself to focus on what he was seeing, much less believe it.</p><p>The beast stabbed the tough flesh of the gourd with a massive ax beak, then reared back with a disgusted set of sounds which blended together from a mewling growl and a thrumming chirp. It shook its head and twisted around to look at its riders inquisitively. With a low hiss, it turned its attention again and pawed at a new pumpkin. Ludicrously, Alistair was reminded of a cat with a ball of yarn.</p><p>“Is that …?” he stammered. It couldn’t be anything else, and he stared up at the riders who wore long leather coats and specialized armor. The one in front bore unmistakable symbols of the Grey Wardens. Both wore covering for their face to protect them from the fury of wind, and by the jaunty smirk which emerged with a dark face, the Warden was enjoying the stir he created.</p><p>A lighter rider in similar, unmarked attire slid from the griffon’s back. She rushed toward Alistair, flinging her headwear aside and landed in his startled arms. “Maker’s breath,” he swore, choking on the words as she spun her around. It was all he could get out before he began kissing her.</p><p>The world stopped then, and all the shouts around him blurred away. Even the Warden’s introduction went past him as Alistair held Serafina in a ferocious hug.</p><p>“You know,” he told her as his old humor bloomed instantly back into place. “You may have a little explaining to do.”</p><p>She laughed and he finally put her back on her feet. “Or maybe a lot of explaining,” he amended, staring at the griffon. It’s scaly forelegs were down on the ground in a bow position. Slate gray wings folded at its side, and lion’s tail lashed back and forth. With its rump hiked up in the air, its back paws minced daintily. The posture almost gave its hips a dancing appearance before it pounced all at once on a pumpkin and went rolling with it.</p><p>The Warden groaned something about grooming as the beast lay on its back, kicking out great gouges from the plump gourd with hind claws and holding it firmly in place with eagle talons.</p><p>“Maybe you should start at the beginning,” Alistair suggested to Serafina.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Serafina belongs to user LadyAmesIndy and was used with her permission.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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